CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

 

When Undertaker brought AJ home, he followed her to the door. She wasn’t sure if she was ready to invite him into her place, but after the weekend they’d spent together, she knew it was time.

“You want to come in?”

“Absolutely, sugar.”

She was nervous, and of course he picked up on that immediately.

As she walked in the door, her cat ran to her, wrapping itself around her legs. “This is Moxie. I’ve had her since she was a kitten. How’s Mama’s little fur ball?” She scooped her up, gave her a kiss on the head, and then set her down.

Undertaker looked around her place, and she did, too, seeing it through his eyes. She liked modern design, and the place reflected that. She also didn’t like clutter. Her open kitchen with the bar that overlooked the living area was spotless. Her orange juice glass from the other morning still sat where she’d left it, washed, rinsed, and turned upside down on a clean dishtowel next to her empty sink.

There were no crumbs on the counter, no spills on the stove. The afghan draped over the back of the sofa was folded just so. The photography books on the coffee table were lined up perfectly, their edges fanned out with equal spacing. Nothing was out of place.

His eyes didn’t miss a thing.

Then, to her surprise, he moved to her—placed his hands on her waist and hoisted her to the counter, setting her ass on it. Before she could do more than let out a startled yelp, he moved between her legs.

“You like things neat, huh?” he asked with a grin.

She sucked in her lips and released them with a pop. “Guilty as charged.”

“Baby, I’m gonna mess up your world and loosen you up.” He chuckled and his lips found hers. When he pulled back, he took her with him, wrapping her legs around his waist as he walked out of the kitchen and down the hall. “How ‘bout we start by messin’ up your sheets?”

The suggestion was growled in such a sexy voice, she found it erotic as hell and smiled up at him, nodding.

He found the bedroom easily enough at the end of the hall. Striding in, he walked to the bed, took her down on the coverlet, and pinned her with his weight.

That’s when his eyes skated around the room, taking it all in. She was proud of the way she’d decorated it; she loved this room. Now she watched him note every detail.

The bed was a four-poster, the wood black with thin posts tapering off near the ceiling. Two matching nightstands sat on either side, each with a shiny silver lamp with a black shade. A set of four black and white prints of the French Quarter in simple frames graced the wall above the headboard.

The coverlet was sand-colored, the throw pillows a silvery texture.

He noticed everything, and then his roving gaze stopped, his eyes on the nightstand over her head. She craned her neck to look. The face in the framed picture stared back at her.

She felt Undertaker’s body tense as he bit out in a gravelly voice, “Who is he?”

“Derek, it’s not what you think—”

“Who is he, Allie?” Louder this time, with a little more bite to his words.

Her voice was soft as she replied, “My husband.”

His eyes dropped from the photograph to the set of rings that always lay in front of the frame; her wedding rings.

His sharp, confused eyes came back to hers, even as his body backed off.

She suddenly panicked, afraid he was about to walk out, and she sat up prepared to stop him. But he just stood there, his eyes moving from the framed photo to her.

“Your what?” His voice was soft, almost broken as he asked the question, needing clarification for what he must see as an incredulous answer. “I’m in his bed… the bed you share with him?”

She shook her head. “It’s not like that. He’s dead. He died four years ago. I’m a widow.”

She saw his body relax some, not all the way.

He pinned her with his eyes. “We’ve spent a lot of time together, Allie. Why didn’t you tell me about him? Aren’t we there?”

“There…?”

“That place where you feel you can tell me anything. Aren’t we there?”

“Yes. We are. I wanted to tell you, it’s just… How do I bring that up? ‘Hey, by the way, my husband was killed because of me.’”

He frowned. “Back the train up. What are you talking about? What do you mean because of you?”

“He’s dead because of me. It’s my fault.”

He dipped his head, his eyes boring into hers. There was a focused intensity about him but softness around the edges of his voice. “Start at the beginning, angel.”

“I was married. Gregg and I were married ten years ago. We were happy. We’d been trying to have a baby without much success, but then I got pregnant and it was good. Everything was finally right. My job, his job, our life together, the baby coming…”

“What happened?”

She swallowed, finding it—like she always did—hard to get the words out. “He was murdered, shot to death on the street outside our home.”

“Christ, baby. I’m sorry.”

She continued, barely acknowledging his condolences. “I fell apart. I was completely devastated. Not long after the funeral, I lost the baby. Too much stress the doctors said.”

“Why do you blame yourself for his shooting? Why do you think it was your fault?”

She blinked up at him, her lips trembling as she fought to get the words out—to admit the one thing that she was so racked with guilt over. “Because the man who shot him was the ex-husband of one of the women I was trying to help. He came after Gregg because of me, to get back at me for meddling in his life, to cause me as much pain as he believed I’d caused him.”

“They catch him?” His tone was harsh, his jaw locked.

She nodded. “He stood trial. I went every day. On the last day, he sat there, mocking me, grinning from the defendant’s table as the judge read the not-guilty verdict.”

“He got off?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “He had a good attorney. There was so much evidence, but his attorney was good at planting doubt. That’s all the jury needed—just enough doubt.”

“What’s his name?”

“Jamal. Jamal Hill.” God, how she hated that name. Even the sound of it made her sick.

“And still you do this job.”

Her soft eyes met his. “They already took everything from me.”

“Not everything, babe.”

She looked down. “I have my work.”

“Hey.”

His soft-spoken word brought her head up.

“No one’s ever gonna hurt you like that again. Not while I draw breath.”

She tried to give him a small smile, touched by his earnest pledge, even though she knew it wasn’t something anyone could promise her.

“You’ve been faking courage and that you don’t care. But I’m gonna make you feel safe again. That’s a promise.”

She wished she could believe him; she wished she could ever feel safe again.

“How long ago was this?” he asked.

“Four years.”

“Four years.” His eyes studied hers, and she saw his mind working. “And in all that time, you’ve never dated, have you?”

How did he know that? Staring up into his face, she shouldn’t be surprised. He knew her like a book. Or he must have thought he did until this. Still, she had to ask. “Why did you say that?”

“Because I know you, Allie. You help people; you don’t put them in danger. Not knowingly.”

God, he did know her. She nodded; it was futile to deny it. “My biggest fear is that I’d be the cause of that happening again.”

“So you’ve kept men at a distance and closed your heart to love because you don’t want to take the chance.”

It was a statement, not a question, but she nodded anyway. “I can’t lose another person. I just can’t.”

“You’re not losing anyone. That’s where I come in. No more tears. No more pain. Just you and me.” His gaze moved to the nightstand with the framed photo and the rings. “But you’re still not over him are you, sweetheart?”

How could she answer that? She’d thought she wasn’t. If someone had asked her that just weeks ago, she’d say no, she wasn’t. There was no room in her heart for anyone else, and perhaps there never would be. But now? Now she wasn’t so sure. Derek stood before her, expecting an answer, needing an answer, deserving an honest one. So she gave him the only one she could.

“I don’t know.” When he didn’t reply, she searched his eyes. “I come with a whole lot of baggage. You should know what you’re signing up for.”

He blew out a long, slow breath. “All this time, I thought it was my baggage that would get in the way of us. Never thought it’d be the other way around. Never thought about your past standing in our way.”

“He’s gone.”

“Sometimes ghosts can be even bigger competition than a living, breathing man I can punch in the face.”

“What about Angie?”

“What about her?”

“Maybe you’re not over her, either. Maybe you never will be.”

“I used to think that. Then you walked into my clubhouse.”

“And?”

“Couldn’t keep my eyes off your ass.” She looked away, not liking his answer, but he cupped her chin and brought her eyes back to him. “It was more than that, and we both know it.”

“Do we?”

“You know we do. There’s a connection, Allie, a powerful one. We locked eyes and just connected—an undeniable understanding.”

She nodded. It was true, every word.

His eyes searched hers. “You know, for a long time I thought about how I had screwed you over, how I’d done what I’d done back then—using you like I had, to get what I wanted. Even back then, it weighed on me. Knew I was leaving you holding the bag. Did what I had to do, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t feel bad about it. I remembered that look of trust on your face the day I walked out of there.” His hands closed over her upper arms pulling her closer. “Sometimes you find out who you are, and it’s too late to change.”

She shook her head. “It’s never too late.”

His eyes lifted to the photograph by the bed. “I wish I could be… everything you wanted when you dreamed of that perfect life. But I can’t. All I can be is me, the man standing in front of you. I may not be the kind of man you thought you wanted, but babe, I promise, I’ll be the kind of man you need.”

And he would, she knew it deep inside her soul. So she did the only thing she could think to do to show him it was enough. She tugged his head down, murmuring, “Shut up and kiss me.”

He gave her what she wanted, but then pulled back, nodding toward the frame. “Think you can put that in a drawer?”

She twisted and nodded. He let her go, and she moved around the bed. She slid the drawer of the nightstand open and laid the frame gently inside, face down, the rings along with it. It’s time, Gregg. I have to let you go.

She turned and gave Undertaker a trembling smile.

“Say you’re all right.” The lines around his mouth said he was worried about her, that maybe he’d pushed her before she was ready.

She walked around the bed and took his hand. “I’m better than all right. But I need you. Now.”

“You got me, lady. Now and always.”

He followed her down on the bed and showed her just how much she had him.

 

***

 

Tucked against Undertaker’s side, AJ lay sound asleep, her head on his chest. He stroked her hair and stared at the ceiling fan whirling slowly above them. He knew he had to do something, knew she wouldn’t like it. That didn’t stop him, though. With his free hand, he reached over and nabbed his phone off the nightstand. His thumb moved over the screen as he texted Bug.

 

Find me everything you can on a Jamal Hill, charged in the shooting of Gregg Carter four years ago. He got off. Find out where he is now.

 

It didn’t take long for the phone to vibrate in his hand with the expected response.

 

I’m on it.

 

Undertaker set his phone down and wrapped his arms around AJ. She wouldn’t like it, but he wouldn’t rest easy until that motherfucker paid for the pain he’d caused her. No one hurt someone he loved and got away with it.

The thought floated easily through his brain before he let it sink in. Someone he loved. It was true. He was in love with her. Hell, when had that happened? It didn’t surprise him, he supposed. What took him by surprise was that it didn’t scare the hell out of him, but rather how right it felt.

He trailed his fingers over her back, feeling her chest rise and fall with her breathing. She felt good in his arms. It had been a hell of a long time coming to finally feel this way again, but it was worth every minute he’d had to wait.

They say lightning never strikes twice, but that was exactly how the odds of this felt—finding someone who understood you, someone you clicked with, someone you could talk to, open up to. That was just as rare as lightning striking twice.

 

***

 

The next morning, while AJ went to make coffee, Undertaker couldn’t help himself. He slid open the nightstand drawer and took out the framed picture of her husband. He studied the smiling, clean-cut face, and it struck him how different he was from the man she’d married. He moved to set the frame back in the drawer but noticed a journal. He flipped it open to where the thin satin ribbon marked the page. It was the last entry, dated two weeks ago. Knowing he shouldn’t read her private writings didn’t stop him.

 

Dear Gregg,

It’s a beautiful day—the kind you would have loved, the kind of day you would have wanted to go sailing. The sky’s a brilliant blue; the sun’s burning bright.

My guilt rises and sets with that damn sun. Every morning is a reminder that the wrong person died that day. And I fear I’ll never get past it.

And so I write letters you’ll never read, begging for forgiveness I don’t deserve and praying for absolution that will never come.

On the day you were killed, Gregg, I didn’t just lose my best friend, my love, my husband, I lost our child.

And then I lost myself.

And there’s nothing I can ever do to bring any of us back.

 

Undertaker heard her coming down the hall and quickly returned the items to the drawer, wishing he hadn’t read those words, hating knowing how badly she was broken and wondering if he was capable of putting her back together again.

As she walked into the room carrying two mugs, the smile bright on her face, he vowed he’d try. If it took forever, if it took everything in him and the rest of his days on this earth, he damn well was going to try.

Because she was worth it, because she deserved it, and because she mattered to him now.